The Slippery Slope Pt 7 (Patreon)

I ran for my life.

That wasn't a figure of speech; once the switchblades had come out and I'd seen the blood, I knew that this wasn't going to end in a few shoves and posturing. People were going to get hurt. People had gotten hurt. There was a good chance that someone would die.

And from the look of it, they intended for that someone to be me.

At one time, I might have tried to reason with them, to explain that no matter who my boyfriend was, I didn't hate Asians or blacks. But I now knew that they wouldn't listen, and even if they did listen, they wouldn't believe me. I wasn't a person to them; I was a target.

Dammit, Peter, the thought flashed through my head, I thought you said they didn't do this.

I resolved to have words with my boyfriend regarding the difference between what he thought they didn't do and what they actually didn't do. Then I put the matter from my mind and concentrated on running just as hard as I could.

My backpack was hampering me, bumping around on my back; I discarded it, letting my arms slip free of the straps. Maybe one of them will trip over it. It was a forlorn hope, but right now, that was all I had. Behind me, I heard their footsteps, all too close; I found a new burst of energy and ran on.

Peter said to call him if anything happened. The phone he'd given me was in my pocket, but there was no way in hell I was going to be able to get it out, wake it up and send a text, or make a call, while running down the road. There were people I knew who could probably do it. I wasn't one of them.

The footsteps came closer. A glance over my shoulder told me that there were two following me, and that they were gaining. I tried to run faster, terror pushing me on. But the human body has limits, and I was reaching mine all too quickly, while it looked like they weren't.

Still, I tried. The breath sobbed in my lungs; my chest burned and my eyes blurred as I tried to exceed my limits, snatch myself a few more seconds of life before they caught me.

Oh god, if there was ever a time I need to get super-powers, this is it.

But I didn't. Still plain old Taylor Hebert, I ran on down the road.

They were so close behind me that their harsh breathing was plainly audible. Even over the roaring of blood in my ears, I heard the distinct snick of a switchblade opening. I needed to run faster. I couldn't run any faster.

I was going to die.

A car beeped its horn behind us, a very familiar sound. Despite my best intentions – keep running, don't look back – I glanced back over my shoulder. In that instant, I saw my salvation. Peter's father had bought him a big four-by-four for Christmas, and he was pretty good at driving it. Right now, he was coming down the road behind us. Veering toward us. He had one hand on the wheel and one off. The free hand was gesturing, palm downward, pushing down.

Down.

I didn't hesitate; I threw myself flat. I had been running all-out and didn't have time to slow down, so I skidded on the concrete pavement. Skin abraded off of my hands and arms, but I was past caring.

Behind us, the engine roared as the wheels bumped up over the curb; the ABB kids must have had less than a second of warning. I might even have imagined hearing the impacts before darkness blotted out my world. Then the roar of the engine overrode everything, except the screech of tyres. The stink of oil and gasoline was overpowering. Something pressed down on my left foot. I cowered, face-down on the concrete, eyes clenched shut, hands clasped over the back of my head.

Then the engine noise died away. In the sudden silence, the sound of the doors opening was very plain; several sets of boots jumped out on to the pavement. I could hear the vehicle lifting on its springs, or whatever holds a car up.

“Taylor?” It was Peter. “Taylor? Are you all right?”

Unlacing my fingers from the back of my head, I raised it, only for it to go clunk against something hot and metallic about two inches above me. It was that close. Opening my eyes, I turned my head. There was a car tyre beside me; further back, behind it, Peter was kneeling, looking under the vehicle. Other faces could be seen, but I only had eyes for him. His worried expression made my heart melt.

“I think?” It came out more as a question than a statement. “What's on my foot?”

He leaned down and twisted his neck to see. “I think it's the back wheel. Does it hurt?”

“Just – just pressure,” I said. I tried to move it. “It's stuck.”

“Just hold on one second.” He stood up, then climbed into the truck. I hard the engine start, and the gears grind. The truck moved, rolling backward a foot or so. The pressure lifted off of my foot. I stayed right where I was, in case the vehicle moved again.

But it didn't. He shut it off again, and climbed out. “Is that better?”

“Y-yes.” I tried to keep the whimper out of my voice. “I want to get out from under here.”

“Can you wriggle out?”

“I'll try.”

I did more than try. I'd never done the whole commando-crawl thing, but I discovered an unexpected talent for it. Directly ahead was bright daylight and fresh air; I was going to get there or die trying.

Peter was waiting for me when I scrambled out from under the truck. He steadied me as I got up; I clung to him. The others crowded around, looking worried.

“You sure you're okay?” he asked, concern written all over his face.

“Y-yeah,” I said uncertainly. My foot was a little sore, but there was no stabbing pain, nothing to indicate any damage. “Oh god, George.”

His eyes became alert. “Where is he?”

“Back – back at the school. They ambushed us.” I was almost in tears. “He told me – he told me to run.”

“Then you did the right thing.” Taking my arm, he guided me around to the passenger side of the truck, where Bronson already had the door open for me.

“You okay?” Bronson asked as he climbed into the back seat; the other guys piled in with him. It had to have been more than a little cramped, with four big guys squashed into a seat meant for three, but there were no complaints.

“I am now, thanks,” I told him as I climbed in. “But George … there were about six of them -”

“Shit.” Leaving me to close the door, Peter ran around the front of the vehicle and got in on the driver's side. He started the engine and backed down off of the pavement. As he did so, I looked ahead, to see the crumpled forms of the two ABB kids who had been chasing me. They hadn't moved the whole time.

“Wh-what about them?” I asked tentatively.

“What about 'em?” asked Peter grimly. “They were gonna kill you. Or worse.”

“I can stay and make sure of 'em,” Bronson offered. Somehow I got the idea he didn't mean applying first aid.

“No time,” Peter told him, pulling a hard U-turn. I wanted to protest; they were people too, after all.

People who wanted to kill me. Or worse, whatever that means.

Leaning back in my seat, I did my seat belt up. They wanted to hurt me, but they got hurt instead. I didn't exactly feel good about it, but I didn't start that fight.

As we drove away, I didn't look back.

<><>

My hands and elbows were beginning to sting when we pulled up at the school, but I wasn't paying any attention. Instead, I was staring at the schoolyard, hoping against hope to see George waving to us. He wasn't; in fact, he wasn't there at all.

“Bronson, stay with Taylor. Rest of you, with me.” Peter snapped the orders, and the others obeyed without a moment's hesitation. They piled from the four-by-four and spread out, calling out for George. To my utter astonishment, I saw a small pistol in Peter's hand; I'd had no idea that he even owned one, let alone carried it.

Bronson got out of the back seat and stepped up to the passenger side front door. “It might be an idea to lock the doors, just in case,” he suggested. “Not telling you what to do, but just saying.”

“It's a good idea,” I agreed, and reached across to hit the locking button on Peter's door, then I did the same with mine. “Oh god, I hope he's okay.” Tears were beginning to run down my cheeks. “They were coming after me, but he pulled them off of me and he told me to run, and I -” I hiccuped then started again. “I ran away. He told me to.”

“Hey.” Bronson's voice was warm and comforting. “Like Peter said, you did exactly the right thing. If you were still there, he'd have had to watch out for you and him both. He made the call to tell you to run, and you ran. Soon as you were gone, he had a better chance. Trust me on this.”

As he spoke, he wasn't looking at me; his eyes were quartering the schoolyard. Searching for danger, I realised. Despite the fact that the only people visible were Peter and his friends, he didn't relax or let down his guard.

“I hate this,” I whispered.

“Hate what?” he asked; despite his attention being on his surroundings, he wasn't ignoring me.

“Feeling stupid and weak and useless. I hate it. I don't know why Peter puts up with me. I'm nothing but trouble for him, and now George -” I gulped back a sob. “Because of me -”

“Hey.” His voice was a little firmer, a little sharper. There wasn't anger in there, exactly, but he didn't sound quite so comforting. “Peter likes you for you. I like you, too. You're smart and brave and you're willing to face up to him and tell him what's what, and trust me, we all appreciate that. So things happened that you weren't prepared for? That's on Peter, not on you.” He took a deep breath then looked into my eyes, just for a moment. “Yeah, we took our eye off the ball. That's our bad. But you can be damn sure that Peter's never gonna let that happen again. You're that important to him. To us.”

And then, as if he had never spoken, he was scanning our surroundings again. Which was fine with me, because I had to stop and try to process his words. My thoughts were already churning in a dozen different directions at once; this just increased the chaos three times over.

Peter is willing to kill for me. I was under no illusions as to the state those kids had been left in after the four-by-four had hit them. Dead or badly hurt, we had just left them lying in the road. Peter didn't care, so long as I was all right.

I should have been horrified at the callousness, should have insisted that they be given first aid, medical attention. But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realise that I didn't care. Not really. Peter had said that they would have killed me or worse – and I really wasn't sure if I wanted to know what 'worse' was – when I hadn't invited any attacks, or even done something against them to justify it. They were just going to attack me for the crime of being in love with Peter.

Well, screw them.

My thoughts turned to Bronson. He had spoken frankly about Peter's feelings for me. I was pretty sure that Peter hadn't told him to, or even knew about it. He'd been willing to get in trouble to make sure I knew what was going on in Peter's head about me, to set me straight. That spoke to a loyalty deeper than almost anything I'd ever seen before. Not only loyalty to Peter – that went without saying – but loyalty toward me.

I'd seen it before; a guy gets a girlfriend and she immediately has to run the gauntlet of his friends' judgement. And all too often, when they disapprove, he has to choose between one and the other. Peter's friends weren't just going along with his choice of me; they were actively supporting it. They want me to be with him. They want me to be one of them. It was an amazingly warm feeling, one that spread through my chest and out to my extremities. Wow.

Tears were forming in my eyes again, for a different reason this time. I blinked them away and turned to Bronson. “Can you tell me something?”

“Sure.” He didn't look away from his self-imposed vigil.

“When Peter said 'worse' … what did he mean?”

His jaw hardened; I knew right then that it was really bad. “Not sure if I should tell you.”

“I'm asking. Please.”

Muscles bunched at the corner of his jaw. “Dammit,” he muttered, then took a deep breath. “You didn't hear this from me, okay?”

“I promise.”

“Right then.” He continued to look around, even as he spoke in a low tone. “Few years ago, one of Peter's cousins had a girlfriend outside the Empire. They were silly in love. ABB got wind, kidnapped her. Kept her. Tortured her. Worse. Every week they sent him a packet of photos and a finger joint or some other part of her, freshly severed.”

I felt sick to my stomach. “Oh god.”

“You asked.”

“And they would have done this to me, this time?”

The slightest of shrugs. “Probably.”

All of a sudden, I felt even less worried about the welfare of the ones who had been chasing me. But I had to know the end of the story. “What … what happened?”

“To her, or to him?”

“Uh, both?” I wasn't certain that I wanted to know. But I was certain that it would eat at me until I did know.

“He cracked. Couldn't take it any more. Got a gun and went after the ABB. They killed him, of course, but I'm pretty sure he took a few with him. Then they sent her back. What was left of her. She needed full-time care. Died about six months later.”

I hunched in on myself. “But why do they even do this?”

“To win.” His voice was low and hard. “They're brutes. Cowards. They'll hit loved ones to hurt our leadership. Bleed us of our best and brightest.”

I knew the answer to what I was saying, but I said it anyway. “I don't hate them. Why attack me?”

“Even if they knew it, even if they believed it, they wouldn't care,” he said. “They don't want peace. They want to win. To grind us down. To draw us out and destroy us. And someone who doesn't hate them is someone they can't draw out.”

“Oh, god.” So, damned if I do, damned if I don't.

“Yeah. But just so you know.” He was looking at me again. “We won't let that shit happen again.” There was absolute sincerity in his voice. I believed him, implicitly. The warm feeling inside me redoubled. If a cop had walked up to me right then and asked about the two ABB kids who had been hit by the truck, I would have lied my ass off to protect Peter.

“I -” But I was interrupted by a shout from across the parking lot.

We both looked around; it was repeated. “Found him! Bring the truck!”

My head came up, as did Bronson's. An image of the way I had seen him last crossed my mind. All I could see was the blood and the knives. “Why the truck?”

“We'll be taking him away for burial. Not leaving him here.” Then Bronson was hustling around the vehicle. I leaned across and unlocked the door to let him in. He climbed in; the keys were still in the ignition. The engine roared to life and he started the vehicle moving.

There was a garden bed between us and where we had to go. Bronson just aimed the four-by-four at it and bumped up and over it. I heard straggly plants crunching under the wheels. Neither of us commented; I just hung on.

When we got to where they were, I saw that George had managed to back up into a corner of the building so that he was protected on two sides. There was blood splattered around, on the brick exterior wall of the school, and on the ground around him. That can't all be his, I told myself. There's too much of it. For the first time, I hoped that the ABB who had attacked us were all suffering extremely painful wounds.

I got out of the vehicle and moved closer, brushing aside hands that tried to stop me. He was covered in blood; I could see white bone through a scalp wound, and one eye was just gone. There was something odd about the way he was lying back in the corner, until I realised that he had an ABB guy on top of him. One arm was clutched around his enemy, fist clenched around a switchblade that was driven into the guy's back, while the other held a second switchblade. Even in death, he had not let loose of it.

“Killed the guy and used him as a shield,” muttered Bronson behind me. “God damn, that's badass.”

I couldn't help but agree. Moving right up to George, I crouched down. From here I could see the slashes on his shoulders and arms. He had fought with everything he had, to keep them from chasing me.

“I'm sorry I got you into this,” I whispered. “Thank you for saving me.”

And then his one good eye opened.

I jumped, just a little. “George?”

“Taylor?” It was the barest breath of a whisper.

“Holy shit, he's alive!” That was Peter. “Get that fucker off of him!”

“Yeah, it's me,” I told George. “You saved me. I'm fine.”

Peter and Bronson moved up past me, crouched down to take hold of the dead ABB guy. George resisted, holding on to the switchblade, or perhaps it was the crusted blood that refused to let his hand unstick from the knife.

“You can let him go now,” I urged him. “We're going to get you to help.”

Slowly, the gore-coated fingers loosened, allowing Peter and Bronson to lift the corpse away. Under it, his clothes were just as covered in blood; I couldn't believe that he was still alive. I put my knuckles in my mouth and bit down so I wouldn't break down and cry. This had happened to him because he was defending me.

“Taylor.” It was Peter's voice, low and calm. “In the truck, under the front seat. First aid kit. Can you get it, please?”

George didn't need first aid; he needed a hospital. But I didn't argue. Tearing my eyes away from George, I hurried over to the vehicle and felt under the front seat. Pulling the plastic box out, I opened it. Bandages, pads … this is the one.

Closing the box again, I took it back to Peter. “Anyone here know first aid?” he asked.

Bronson cleared his throat. “I haven't, uh, done a proper course, but I've helped patch guys up before.”

“Good, then you're it,” Peter told him, shoving the box at him. “Patch him up so we can get him to proper medical attention.”

“Shit.” Bronson looked down at George. “I've never dealt with anything this bad before.”

“First time for everything,” Peter said. “This is George. He's had your back a dozen times. Come on, Bronson. Man up and do it.”

A grimace crossed Bronson's face, then he took a deep breath. “Crap. Okay then. I need his shirt open. Off. All the way off. I need to see what I'm dealing with.”

It was so sticky with blood that they couldn't even unbutton it, so they had to cut it off of him. Then Bronson started flushing away the blood with a squeeze-bottle full of water and wiping off the residue with cotton balls. As each ball became too sodden to use, he discarded it. A quick glance at the first aid box and he frowned. “We're not gonna have enough pads.”

The word triggered an association in my mind, and my head came up. “I have some, in my backpack.”

“What?” His voice was distracted.

“Pads. In my backpack.” I gestured at myself. “For, you know, periods.”

“Oh. Oh!” The revelation burst upon him. “They'd be perfect. Where?”

I pointed. “Down that way. Maybe a hundred yards.”

“Tom.” Peter didn't need to say more; one of the guys broke away from the group and took off running.

Bronson kept working; as he found each cut, he pressed a pad over it and got someone to hold it in place. Pretty soon, each of us had a hand on at least one pad. Thomas returned with my pack, and my emergency stash of feminine hygiene products was also pressed into service. Nobody made any jokes about it, for which I was grateful. The stab wounds got cotton balls. Then Bronson got the guys to sit George up while I wound a bandage around him to keep all the pads and cotton balls in place.

George's legs and arms were also cut and bleeding; Bronson was out of pads, so he just wound bandages around them as well, then around his head. By the time he'd finished, George looked like a very inexpertly mummified corpse, with fresh blood seeping through at more than one spot.

Eventually, he sat back. His hands were bloody to the elbows, but George's chest was still rising and falling, so he was still alive, which was enough.

“We've got to get him to the hospital,” I urged Peter.

“No,” he told me. “We've got a better place. Hospitals will involve the police.”

I knew better than to argue. “Okay, fine.” I shot an agonised look at George. “But do it fast. Please.”

<><>

It took all four of them to get George over to the truck, where they carefully slid him on to the back seat. I helped as much as I could, anxiously trying to make sure that the blood-stained bandages stayed in place. I would have worried about getting blood on to the seats of Peter's truck, but he didn't seem to care at all.

“Taylor, I want you talking to him,” Peter told me grimly. “Hold his hand. Keep him alive. He seems to respond to you.”

“Okay, I'll do that,” I said. “I'll try, anyway.” I looked at the truck, then at the other boys. “Uh, how are you getting home?”

“We'll call up for lifts,” Bronson assured me, using the bottle of water to clean the dried blood from his hands and arms. He nodded to Peter. “We'll be fine. Go.”

Peter negotiated the garden bed with more finesse than Bronson had, but even then, the bumps drew a faint groan from George. “It's okay,” I assured him, leaning back between the seats so I could take his hand in mine. “That's the last of it. It'll be smooth from here on. Just hold on.”

In answer, he squeezed my hand; I squeezed back. Through the rear window, I saw the boys stamping on something in the garden bed. For a moment I was puzzled, then I realised that they were obliterating the wheeltracks. Wow, they really do think of everything.

“Taylor.” Peter was hunched over the wheel, driving with careful concentration. “My phone, right back pocket.”

“Okay. Skootch forward.”

He shuffled his butt forward on the seat and I reached down awkwardly with my right hand – my left was occupied with holding George's hand – and eventually pulled out Peter's phone. At his direction, I slotted it into the bracket on the dash. It woke up; he told me the PIN to enter to unlock it.

“Call … Father,” he directed it. I heard the dial tone, then the phone was picked up.

“Peter?” It was Mr Ferguson's voice, coming out of the speakers all around us.

“Yes, sir,” Peter replied. “We have a situation. George is badly hurt. The ABB tried to take Taylor.”

“Is she all right?”

“She's fine. Just a bit shaken. She's with me now. But George needs urgent medical help. I'm taking him to M- to the clinic. Can you make sure that, uh, that the best doctors are ready when we get there?”

“I can try. Does Taylor know about where the clinic is?”

Peter took a deep breath. “Not yet, sir. But I trust her.”

“Trust is immaterial in this case. We need to discuss this matter before revealing more information to her. Taylor, can you hear me?”

“Uh, yes, sir,” I said nervously.

“It's not that we don't trust you. It's just that there is certain information, very sensitive, involved here. Peter vouches for you, and I trust his judgement, which is why we're even considering letting you in on it. But it has to be discussed before you are given full access. Do you understand?”

“I – yes, sir, I understand,” I replied. “I really do. You can't just let anyone in on it.” I had a sneaking suspicion that I already knew some of it, but I wasn't about to admit to that. Better to let them think that they were telling me of their own free will. It wasn't as if I was about to tell anyone, anyway.

“Good. Peter, until this matter has been discussed, she is not to know the location of the clinic. Do you understand?”

“Understood, sir,” he said. His tone was firm, but his expression was a grimace.

“Very well. I will do my best to make sure that your friend gets all the care he needs. And Taylor?”

“Uh, yes, sir?”

“I'm glad you're all right. Very glad.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The call ended; I glanced at Peter. He glanced back at me. “I, uh, I'm sorry -”

“No need,” I told him briskly. “It's important to keep it secret. I'll go with that.” I gave him a quick smile, then shut my eyes. “I'll keep my eyes closed till we get there. How about that?”

His voice was full of wonder. “You're amazing, Taylor. Anyone ever tell you that?”

My smile widened. “Nobody but you. But I could stand to hear more of it.” As I spoke, I used my free hand to take my glasses off and hang them off of my shirt. I wasn't going to be using them, and if I did happen to open my eyes, I didn't want to see anything incriminating.

“I'd kiss you, but I'm driving. Maybe later?”

“Definitely later.”

<><>

The drive seemed to take far too long. George was still alive by the time we got there, but his grip on my hand was weaker than when we had started. I gave him what encouragement I could, and it seemed that my voice helped, but there was only so much I could do.

Behind my closed eyelids, I saw the light levels drop, then Peter pulled the four-by-four to a stop. The doors were opened from the outside and I felt George start to move, being lifted out of the back seat.

“Holy crap, he's a mess.” That was a voice I didn't know, female. “Injuries?”

“Multiple cuts and stab wounds, from switchblades.” Peter. “He's lost a lot of blood.”

“Type?”

“AB negative,” he replied crisply. Somehow it didn't surprise me that he knew George's blood type.

“Roger that,” the woman said. “We've got it from here.” I felt George's hand slip from mine.

“Who's she?” asked a male voice.

“She's with me,” Peter replied firmly. “She'll be coming in with me. No names, no reference to where we are.”

“If she's not cleared, then why did you -” The man stopped talking.

“She's. With. Me.” Peter's voice was even sharper. “Is there a problem?”

“Uh, no. No problem at all.”

George was out of reach; I heard the clatter of wheels on concrete. “Peter?”

“They've got him on a gurney. Taking him inside. Keep your eyes closed; I'll walk you in.”

“Okay.”

He was as good as his word; moments after he got out, the door on my side opened and he assisted me out. With a steadying hand at my elbow, we walked forward; I heard automatic doors open and felt the chill of air conditioning.

“I'm not prying for information, but is this clinic very good?” I asked.

“It's the best,” he replied shortly. “All our guys who get hurt badly come here. Most of them walk out again.”

It occurred to me that the Empire must have serious money behind it to be able to afford their own private clinic, or to perhaps be able to request the services of a regular clinic for themselves when they needed to. I didn't voice any of this, of course; any comment Peter made would probably give away information he wasn't allowed to reveal to me, and I didn't want to put him on that spot.

“That's good,” I said, for want of anything better to say. “I'm glad. I hope he makes it. If it wasn't for him …”

Peter let go my elbow and wrapped his arms around me; for the first time, I realise that I was shaking. I buried my face in his shoulder as the tears began, then the sobs. He didn't say anything, just held me and rubbed my back gently in circles as I cried. I didn't even know why I was crying; the danger was long past, and George was getting the medical help that he needed. Reaction, I supposed.

Still, I guess that I needed it. I needed someone to hold on to, and I needed to get it out of my system. Peter let me take my time, merely guiding me to the side of the corridor (I guessed) so that people could get past.

“Oh, god,” I muttered eventually. “I must look a mess.” I sniffled; he pressed a handkerchief into my hand. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

“You look just fine to me,” he told me seriously.

“You sure I'm the one with my eyes shut?” I asked him with a damp giggle. “I mean, seriously, nobody looks at their best after crying. It's kind of a law of nature.”

“Ooh, ouch,” he muttered. “Talking about a mess. We need to get your hands seen to.”

“My hands?” I asked. “What about my hands?” That was when the stinging started up again in full force; all too readily, I recalled diving headlong on to the concrete pavement, my hands and elbows catching the impact, skin shredding off of them. “Ow. Ow ow ow.”

“Come on, you can open your eyes now,” he said. “Let's get this sorted out.”

<><>

A little to my disappointment, the clinic looked like a clinic and not, as I had secretly hoped, like a supervillain lair. Off-white painted walls, hard plastic chairs and examination tables with just enough mattress to be uncomfortable all added to the general decor. I had no idea where it was, which was probably the idea; it could have been in the basement of Brockton Bay General or hidden inside a fake apartment block in midtown.

With Peter in attendance, I sat on an examination table while a motherly nurse – or someone who was dressed like a nurse and had the attitude down pat – cleaned and disinfected my hands and arms, then put a topical cream on them. The disinfectant stung like crazy, but I refused to make a sound. I'd already shown myself up to be a wimp enough times today.

“I'll just put a light dressing on them for the time being,” the possibly-a-nurse told me. “Take it off when you shower, then cover them again afterward. They should be healing inside a day or so. If they show signs of infection, see a doctor as soon as you can.”

“Okay,” I told her. “Thanks.” I turned to Peter. “What about George?”

“If this is the young man that you brought in,” the maybe-a-nurse said, “he's in surgery. Given his injuries, he might be there for some time yet.”

“But will he be all right?” I tried to keep the pleading note out of my voice as she wrapped bandages around my hands and wrists. Please, give me some good news.

She shook her head. “I can't say. You got most of the bleeding stopped, and you got him here in good time, so he has a chance. But beyond that …”

“He's a fighter,” Peter reassured me. “We both know that. He'll pull through.” He helped me down off the examination table. “How do your hands feel?”

“A little sore, but nothing that I can't handle,” I said honestly. “That cream helped a lot.”

“Good. Let's get out of here.” He smiled at me. “Up to keeping your eyes closed a little longer?”

“Well, I'd much rather look at you,” I told him mischievously, “but I suppose I can stand it for a while. Where are we going?”

It was his turn to grin back at me. “It's a surprise.”

<><>

“Okay, you can open your eyes.”

Putting my glasses on, I looked around, blinking a little at the glare. I'd had no idea where we were going in the truck, and Peter hadn't explained anything. The cryptic phone calls he'd made on the drive hadn't served to clear anything up either.

“Okay, where are we?” I asked. “I don't think I've ever been here before.”

Peter leaned forward a little and pointed. “Over there.”

I turned and looked; the only building of note that I could see was an old run-down gym. “The gym?” I asked as I turned back to Peter, only to be surprised – but not displeased – as he stole a kiss. I stole one right back, so we were even.

“The gym, yeah,” he said. His arm slid around my shoulders; almost automatically, I snuggled into him. “But you know, we can sit here a bit longer, if you want.”

So we sat there for a bit longer. It was very pleasant, and a good way to take my mind off of what had happened earlier. But all good things must come to an end, although my glasses were starting to steam up by the time he reluctantly opened his door.

“Come on,” he told me. “I'll introduce you to Harry. We did him a favour a few years ago, got rid of a gang called the West Side Demons who were pushing for protection money. These days, we help him keep going and he teaches our guys how to fight.”

Harry, as it turned out, was a blocky fireplug of a man, maybe Dad's age or a little older. He was a little shorter than me, but broad enough in the shoulders to make two or three of Peter. The way he held himself and the scarring around his eyes marked him out as a boxer; one who was getting on a bit, sure, but someone who could still take care of himself.

Waiting with him was Jenna; we hugged, then I turned to greet Harry as Peter introduced us. For his part, the ageing pugilist looked less than impressed to see me. He looked me up and down with an intense scowl on his face, then growled, “Okay, girl. Let me see your hands.”

Obediently, I held up my hands. He took them, one at a time, and worked the fingers, pressing his thumb in between the knuckles.

“Ever thrown a punch?” he asked gruffly.

“Uh, no, sir,” I answered hesitantly. “I've never had to.”

“Don't call me sir, girl. Call me Harry. I work for a living. If young Ferguson here thinks you need to learn to throw a punch, then you need to learn. Make a fist for me.”

I curled my fingers into a fist with a wince at the pain from my hand; with a snort, he pulled them open again. Oh, he's realised that I'm hurting.

But no such luck. “Thumb on the outside, girl. Otherwise you'll break it, first time you hit someone hard enough to hurt.” Crap.

I closed my fist again, this time with my thumb on the outside. He nodded and held up his hand, palm out. “Hit it.”

Hesitantly, I swung my fist. This is going to hurt. My knuckles impacted with his palm with a light smack; sure enough, it sent a spike of pain up my arm from the heavy abrasions. I tried not to show it, but I couldn't resist grimacing and tucking my hand under my left armpit. Some of the more vile words I had learned from the Dockworkers welled up in my mind, but I gritted my teeth and kept my mouth shut. Tears welled in my eyes and I blinked them back.

“Let me see that, girl,” Harry told me. Taking my arm, he turned my hand over and peeled away some of the dressing. “What happened here?”

“Gravel rash,” I told him. “I was running and then I fell flat to avoid being run over by some idiot in a car.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter's lips twitch as my barb went home. Jenna, on the other hand, grinned.

“I see. Well, makes sense that you need to know how to fight.” He eyed my hands. “But no way you can hit anything till that heals.”

“Hmm, good point,” Peter acknowledged. “Jenna. Think you can train Taylor to fight with Harry coaching?”

Jenna looked me over with a smile tugging at her lips. “She's tougher than she knows,” she decided at last. “I figure we can do this. Taylor, you up for it? We can start with footwork.”

I had to admit, I felt better at the idea of being trained to fight by Jenna rather than this gruff old man. Although the idea of being trained to fight at all made me feel a little less than thrilled.

On the other hand, I never again wanted to feel so helpless as I had when the ABB had attacked us. And Jenna's comment had heartened me; she wasn't one to pay a meaningless compliment. With the feeling of stepping out over a bottomless pit, I nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “Let's do this thing.” 

Part 8